Monday, May 21, 2012

Please
refrain from any negative comments regarding the book by EL James. That’s not
what this post is about.

I
sold antiques at a flea market this past Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
Naturally, I set a few copies of my suspense/mystery novel Whistle Pass out for sale as well.

Once
ladies learned I had written Whistle Pass,
the conversation invariably turned to Fifty
Shades of Grey, usually with this line as the icebreaker:

“I’m
reading that book I shouldn’t be reading.”

A
quirky smile then appeared.

It
didn’t take too many of these conversations for me to realize that the majority
of women I spoke with weren’t as interested in the book as they were the idea
of doing something edgy, maybe even bordering on taboo, something risqué and a
bit devilish, with nothing really at stake. It was the thrill of the bragging
rights that they had obtained a copy and were reading a book that they wouldn’t
even say the name of in public. Or at least said they were.

My
point is that for a number of these ladies, claiming to be reading the book
(not a one of them said they had finished it – they were always “reading” it)
set them apart from what had been mediocrity and initiated them into a group of
faceless literary daredevils walking the razorblade of the forbidden. It was
the “act,” not the book, that sent shivers up their spines, reddened their
ears, and provided the courage to share with a complete male stranger the provocative
thing they were doing.

Interestingly,
in all of the conversations I had with these ladies in this unique setting, not
once did the reader talk about the book at all. Not once. Their focus remained
on the act of possessing and reading the novel. After the first couple of
ladies, I started asking if the person had plans to go see the movie when it
came out. The answer was always “no.” Maybe they were being honest, maybe that
was something they didn’t want to answer. I don’t know.

I
do know what one lady gave as her reason for not planning on seeing the film
version. She said in effect, ‘I wouldn’t want to watch the movie because it probably
wouldn’t be like I’ve imagined.’ Her answer made me smile. What she described
is the goal we as storytellers strive for. She said the story took shape in her
mind, and she didn’t want to lose that imagery.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

To
begin, I dislike the term “straight” as it implies the alternative is crooked
or deformed. I’m heterosexual. Het.

I’m
old enough I was raised in a society where homosexuality genuinely was
considered the deformed alternative to being straight. When I was four, the
federal government officially declared homosexuality a mental disorder and
began a purge of homosexuals. The churches and public schools I attended
embraced that ideology and ensured our young minds were properly educated to
the dangers of the predatory insane lurking on every corner for the opportunity
to take advantage of a child.

In
my later public school years, no one ever did make a move to refute the idea
that homosexuality equated to insanity, including my parents. That is, until a
voluntary, pay for it yourself “field trip” took place in my senior year of
high school. The school provided bus transportation and chaperones to an
evening performance of HAIR.

For
those not familiar with the topics addressed in that musical, I recommend
renting a video of the musical, not the movie. At the time, interracial sex,
not to mention same-sex sex, and public nudity were the demons sure to plunge
our world into the pits of hell. HAIR
has all of those and more.

There
were two things in particular that struck me that night at the performance. The
first being, how the young lady on the back of the stage during the nude scene
had the most beautiful set of tits I’d ever imagined to exist. Yes, I still
remember them, and everything else about her. I hope her life without me in her
arms turned out well.

The
second was the scene where a white man (fully clothed) had sex with a black man
(also fully clothed). Holy hell. They were just actors playing roles, but the
scene’s message bore into me. It was the first realization that what had been
ingrained into my brain might not be reality.

When
I tried to discuss that scene at school, with my friends, and at home, I was
quickly reminded HAIR was a play, not
real life, and there was no need for further discussion.

Wrong.

Place
something in front of my eyes that stimulates my mind to question the ideals
implanted in me, and I’m damn sure going to talk about it.

That
was when I understood very few people in my circle of life understood me or the
world in general. And, for the first time, I wondered how many homosexuals I
had met, maybe even known and hung out with, who felt they had to keep their
sexuality hidden from me. The societal beliefs I had grown up with began to
disintegrate, but it would be years before I fully understood how much of a
hold those beliefs had on my mind.

A
year after high school, fate introduced me to an openly gay couple. Nope. They
weren’t insane, and no one they shook hands with developed an obsession for the
color pink. In fact, we had a lot of common interests and went to beaches and
did a number of things together. Yeah, the evening one of them said how if I
ever wanted to explore, they’d be open to a threesome scared the beejezus out
of me, but no friendship lines were ever crossed. Note here that I also have
and have had female friends who I never had sex with, though the opportunity
existed if we chose to cross that line. Friendship is and was far more
important to me than the sex that was so readily available during that era. I soon
enlisted in the army to break away from the sex, drugs, and rock and roll
lifestyle I’d been living and provide for my family.

In
the army, I learned one of my friends I drank and bowled with was gay. He got publicly
‘outed’ during something that happened in the barracks he lived in. I never did
know the full details. Within a few days, he’d been transferred (we were in
Germany) back to the states, and the few of us who’d been his friends were
questioned.

During
the interrogation, I was told my friend had made it beyond clear that I was not
gay, nor had any knowledge whatsoever that he was, though in truth, I did know
as he’d told me shortly before whatever happened at the barracks happened. He’d
protected me with what little he had to offer. You must understand the army at
that time. Being gay was akin to being a traitor – those in the “circle” were
presumed guilty by being in the circle. I strongly suspect my friend could have
lessened whatever punishment he was to receive by sacrificing one or two
others. He didn’t do that, opting to stand up for his friends to the very end.
He was one hell of a man who happened to be gay.

I
think that was the incident that shattered the hold my childhood indoctrination
had on me. I became a man who happened to be het, others happened to be gay.
That was how life worked, and, in my mind, still works.

Eventually,
I began writing professionally. How my first published book was about two gay
men is something I’ve discussed other times, other places. Whether the
characters are het, gay, or lesbian isn’t an issue for me. For some folks,
though, it is. I’ve heard from hets who wonder what the hell I’m doing writing
books with gay men in them. I’ve heard from gays asking the same question. And
then, there are some female readers who get upset because my stories in which
the characters are gay men, don’t always have sex, because as one very nice
lady asked, if the men don’t have sex, “What’s the point?”.

So,
while I offend idealists, bigots, and an occasional reader, I’ll continue
telling my stories without worrying about the sexuality of the characters. For
you see, that’s how I live my life now. Why should I be concerned what
sexuality my fictional characters are, when I couldn’t care less what sexuality
my real life friends are?

“Oh,
so you’re one of those heterosexuals who likes to say how he has gay friends.”

No,
I’m saying my friends’ sexuality isn’t any more of your damn business than it
is mine.

A
gay person is born gay. A homophobe is trained to be homophobic.

That’s
right…homophobia is a disease born of ignorance. Fortunately, there’s a cure.
It’s called education. Be smart and get smart.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

What makes the
Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot? What have they got
that I ain't got? ...Courage – The Cowardly Lion, Wizard of Oz, MGM, 1942

That’s the thing, isn’t it? What is it that compromises
courage? The Lion is told at the end, and rightly so, that he has as much
courage as the next person, even when he reacts with fear. Yet, when someone
says “a man of courage,” we don’t picture the Cowardly Lion, we picture a
traditional hero, steadfast and fearless.

Courage – the firefighter rescuing the mom and baby from the
blazing third floor. The helicopter pilot who braves enemy fire to rescue
downed comrades. The Coast Guard captain braving the storm to reach the
crippled fishing boat in time. All very rousing and heart-in-mouth inspiring,
but this sort of courage, powered by adrenaline and endorphins and often an odd
sort of eye of the storm calm, is only one very narrow type of courage.

At its heart, courage is doing
when you are afraid and fear comes in all flavors, not all of them born of
physical peril. It’s often doing the hard things, the right things, the things
the make you uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s the things that make others
uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s as simple as admitting you were wrong, or
admitting things have to change.

Courage is standing by a parent sinking into Alzheimer’s.
It’s hearing the diagnosis that will change your life and forcing yourself to
ask “what steps do we take now?” instead of falling apart. It’s taking the walk
down the red carpet with your lover. It’s admitting to addiction. It’s
recognizing you have dreams and finding the strength to chase them.

The big, brash, loud flavors of courage are fine for the big
screen, but most of the time, courage soldiers on quietly, without fanfare or
recognition, without explosions or gunfire, evident in a thousand small choices
and a thousand mindful acts.

Courage, as Baba Yaga says, is not a thing you have, but a
thing you do.

Which brings me to Vassily
the Beautiful, which, while a story about a number of things, is largely a
story about courage. And that, my dears, is all I’ll say on that.

Serena
at QMO Bookssays: “The impact and
depth of their feelings captivated me. If you like stories about flawed and
damaged characters thrown together in a challenging situation, if you enjoy
watching men battle both exterior and interior demons and if emotions are just
as important as physical attraction for you, this is a books you shouldn’t miss.”

Bobby at
BookWenchessays:“This could have been just another “damsel in distress”
story, but it’s not. Vassily begins the story a victim….I enjoyed witnessing
this change take place as he transitions from spoiled and pouting boy into a
stronger, more self-reliant man.”

Vassily the Beautiful – a
fairytale hurled through space and turned on its axis…

Set in the same universe as Gravitational Attraction, in the
city of New Makarov on a far flung planet at the edge of ESTO space...

A young composer suffers neurological damage in the accident that killed
his father...

An amoral, small-time drug manufacturer brings a dangerous new
bio-engineered intoxicant to the city...

Deals gone wrong and subtle shifts in the underworld's dealings have made
Baba Yaga sons, who act as her security force, edgy and trigger itchy...

Very few constants populate the equations in this new M/M Science Fiction
novel, but when the variables collide? Let the mayhem begin...

A Demon Affair Video Trailer

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About Me

Besides writing fiction, I’m a freelance journalist who interviews authors for news services.
I wrote my first story in crayon while my mother typed a soap opera script she hoped would be her doorway to becoming a published author. She set aside her dream to devote her life to her family. I’ll always treasure Mom’s smile when I told her my first book had been accepted by a publisher. Together, we saw our dream come true.
Mom passed away shortly after my second book was released.
I’m a retired police chief, army veteran, husband, father, and grandfather.